


known subjects

by jillyfae



Series: SH BAU [1]
Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: (especially important when your first family was shit), Alternate Universe - Criminal Minds Setting, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Asexual Character, Found Family, Gen, OMC & Alec Lightwood, OMC & Maia Roberts, POV Outsider, Team as Family, clary fray - Freeform, jace wayland - Freeform, lydia branwell - Freeform, magnus bane - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-17
Updated: 2019-09-17
Packaged: 2020-11-02 08:14:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20680241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jillyfae/pseuds/jillyfae
Summary: It takes determination to get into the BAU: you have to be an FBI agent in good standing, have a history as a successful investigator, show you can handle the cases, can deal with the press, can be there for the families of the victims. Special Agent Fuller has been working towards the BAU for years, but getting in is just the beginning, and there's always more to learn about the job, and the people who do it, especially the Unit Chief, SSA Alec Lightwood.And maybe, being in the BAU isn'tjusta job. Maybe it's more than that.





	known subjects

**Author's Note:**

> I've been rambling about this on [twitter](https://twitter.com/faejilly) as I tried to figure it out, so uh, #bbBAUAgent is unfortunately the tag, if you like that sort of thing 😅
> 
> While not explicit at any point, (so I didn't think to tag any of this in particular), this fic is from the POV of an FBI Profiler (in training), and uses the setting and terminology as generally portrayed by _Criminal Minds_, so there are, you know, serial killers off-screen, dead bodies sometimes *right there*, and allusions to torture. Also institutional homophobia/racism/classism and aphobia.

"I got it!" Fuller flung his hands up, his orders still clenched in his hand, and grinned as the group at the table he was approaching all cheered.

"Congrats!" Carter popped up to give him a hug, which Fuller returned as hard as he could, picking her up off her feet until she squeaked.

"Sorry."

She just laughed and shook her head, her ponytail whipping back and forth behind her head with her enthusiasm. "No worries."

He slid into the chair they'd left empty for him, shoving his letter into his back pocket before he reached out and grabbed the unclaimed beer sitting in the middle of the table.

"Holy shit." Torres held his hand up, and Fuller leaned over to slap it. "Newest member of the BAU, slumming it with us regular old field agents."

"I know right?" Fuller couldn't stop grinning.

"Hey," Yoshino managed to sound actually almost offended, though her smile didn't slip either. "Not a field agent, never a regular old anything."

Torres snorted. "I beg your pardon, oh tech goddess, thank you for slumming with us grunts."

Fuller laughed. "I report to SSA Lightwood first thing in the morning."

"You'll have to tell us if he's as scary as everyone says," Torres said, though he was smiling almost as widely as Fuller, clearly not too worried.

"I dunno, the analysts all adore him." Yoshino shrugged. "I like getting BAU cases when I'm on-call, everyone does, despite how gruesome they usually are."

Carter snorted. "Techs are weird everywhere."

"Hey." Yoshino stuck her tongue out.

Carter glared at her over the rim of her drink. "I know, because I have to live with you."

"Fair," Yoshino conceded. "But you're not a tech, what's your excuse?"

Torres coughed into his drink, clearly trying not to laugh and mostly failing.

"He's Unit Chief," Fuller attempted to get back on topic. "He's mostly in the office, not out on the field, it's not like the analysts deal with him directly all the time."

"But his people treat us well," Yoshino said, "and for it to be that consistent, it's gotta be because he makes sure they do."

"I wonder what he did." Carter asked.

"To keep his Agents in line?" Yoshino asked.

Carter shook her head.

Fuller leaned back and took a careful sip of his beer. Tepid, but not too bad. He sighed as his shoulders relaxed, and waited. He knew what Carter was asking, they'd had the same conversation when he'd applied for the transfer.

"Then what do you mean?" There was an almost guarded note in Yoshino's voice, and Fuller wondered what she really thought of SSA Lightwood, what she wasn't saying here with the rest of them.

"Well, the BAUs got some of the best solve rates in the Bureau—"

"He's the reason they get sent out in teams instead of partners, which helped both the solved percentage _and_ how long it takes to close cases." Torres interrupted.

"True." Fuller tilted his glass in Torres' direction. "I've heard he's always ready to consult on every case any team is out on, even goes out on some of them if we're short-handed, or it's a big case, despite being Chief."

"_We_." Carter snorted. "You've been looking forward to being able to say that for years, haven't you."

Fuller didn't dignify that with a response.

"He's the one who made it policy that the locals always get the collar, instead of just a courtesy," Yoshino pointed out, humming softly.

"Because that Aldertree guy was a dick once too often so Memphis didn't call in the Feds for that home invasion case, you remember?" Carter waved her hand for emphasis; Fuller had no idea how the salsa on the chip she was holding didn't go flying off and land on her shirt. "They had what, nine incidents before the press got wind of it?"

"Of course I don't remember." Yoshino rolled her eyes. "You don't remember either, none of us were Feds yet. You just collect all the gossip."

"And I'm damn good at it, so you should listen to me." Carter nodded sharply and ate her chip, as if that solved that.

"All of that, and he's still just a Unit Chief." Fuller glanced around with his eyebrows raised. "He could pick whichever promotion he wanted."

"Must not want one." Torres shrugged.

"Or he did something and they hushed it up." Carter pouted, clearly annoyed that that was one bit of gossip she never had managed to track down. "Not bad enough to fire him, but _just enough..._"

"Please don't badmouth my boss before I even get to meet him." Fuller snagged a chip before she ate the last of the bowl.

Carter snorted. "Well obviously I can't do it afterwards, you'll have actual evidence to dispute the rumors. That's way less fun."

Yoshino laughed. "Why do we put up with you, you're ridiculous."

"Uh, you put up with me because I always buy the first round?"

"Good point." Torres swallowed the last of his beer. "But that's done with, so I guess it's my turn."

* * *

SSA Lightwood was fucking _terrifying._ He was tall and broad-shouldered and striking, white skin and black hair and bright eyes. His handshake was _very_ firm and his gaze had _weight_ as he looked Fuller up and down. "It's nice to meet you, Agent Fuller. Welcome to the BAU." Neither Lightwood's voice nor his expression gave away a hint as to his thoughts, and his posture was stiff as a soldier's.

"Thank you, sir." Fuller managed to keep his voice steady, and shake Lightwood's hand like a grown-up, but he suddenly felt like a 12-year-old playing dress-up in a borrowed suit. Lightwood exuded tangible competence, with a clear expectation to be met with the same by the people around him, and by the half a frown hiding behind his heavy eyebrows, Fuller suspected one: he hadn't impressed Lightwood on the competence front, and two: Lightwood could knock over most unsubs just by glaring at them.

Fuller was half-convinced he'd made a terrible mistake... until Lightwood walked him back out of his office, and called one of the senior agents over. "Roberts!"

Special Agent Roberts was a beautiful young black woman who looked like she could deck a grizzly bear... and then she laughed, and it lit up the whole bullpen. Fuller almost literally blinked in surprise. "Gonna scare the new guy away with that scowl, boss-man."

Lightwood rolled his eyes, and the frown softened. He wasn't _actually_ smiling, but Fuller suddenly realized that Lightwood _could_. "If my office face scares him away, he's not going to last more than half-a-case in the field." Lightwood turned toward Fuller; this time his mouth did quirk up with amusement, and it felt almost like the earth shifted sideways beneath Fuller's feet. "And I have no doubt you're a better fit here than that."

"Thank you, sir?"

"Did you mean that to be a question?" Lightwood asked.

"Uh. No." Fuller's voice started to lift again, but he wrangled it back down somehow.

Roberts laughed again, though she managed to turn it into a cough when Lightwood raised his eyebrows at her. "Want me to give him the tour, sir?"

"Yes, thank you." Lightwood nodded. "Roberts will get you settled, let me know if you have any questions."

"Thank you, sir." Fuller realized he was starting to sound like a parrot, but he couldn't quite manage more words than that.

The rest of the day was a bit more what he'd expected. He got his desk, IT access codes, the ubiquitous HR handouts. He met the rest of his new team: profilers Lydia Branwell, blonde and well-tailored, self-contained and as overtly (terrifyingly) competent as Lightwood; and Jace Herondale, a handome white man, golden haired with bright two-toned eyes, who moved like a panther lashing his tail but had a warm easy smile. Fuller also met SA Clarissa Fray, a delicate porcelain-skinned red-head with a sharp edge to her who was their press liaison. Or as she put it, _'I translate profiler to muggle and back again with the locals'. _

Fuller knew it was more than that, that the press position helped pick their cases and did most of the family notifications, that she worked more closely with Lightwood on the admin side of things than the rest of them, that she was their anchor in the field, the one who dragged them out of their own heads if they got in too deep.

Fray, who insisted he call her Clary and looked oddly familiar when she smiled at him when he'd agreed, said they'd go over her current pending pile in the afternoon together, so she could get an idea for how he thought about things, so he could see how they picked their cases.

Not that he'd be helping with that anytime soon. There was training he only had access to now that he'd been accepted to the unit, and once he was done with that he'd still be probationary, following his assigned team around for prolonged OTJ training as a very well-educated assistant.

He probably wouldn't even get a solo consult for at least a year; first he'd just sit in on team analyses, then he'd partner up for awhile. Even after that, he'd have to get all his work checked by a more senior agent before he sent it back to the requesting office.

Only when they all agreed would he be cleared for field duty; the BAU had a lot of eyes on them when they were in the field, they didn't want to rush. Lightwood would apparently go with on his first few field assignments; he always went out with the rookies.

Because that wasn't going to give Fuller an anxiety attack or anything. Roberts had laughed at his expression when she told him, but then her smile had softened, and she'd leaned in closer, her voice gentler than he'd heard the rest of the day. "Trust me, there's no one better to have at your back than Lightwood."

Fuller nodded.

"And not just for the obvious intimidation factor."

Fuller snorted, and Roberts let out an audible _ha_. "There you are, knew you had to be in there somewhere."

"I am trying _not_ to make a fool of myself on my first day."

"Doing all right so far." Roberts clapped him on the shoulder. "Come on, let's go meet the analysts."

The head analyst was a man named Magnus Bane, whom Fuller had heard Yoshino talk about, but even so he was not prepared for the way Bane took up the whole room, bright clothes and glinting jewelry dramatic against tan skin and brown eyes and black hair, a warm voice easing the impact of a clearly razor-sharp intellect.

"You can usually stick with an analyst when you're preparing long-distance consults or processing interviews or research, but you won't always get the same analyst when you call in from the field," Bane said. "There's more than enough projects that we find we get more done by staying on a regular schedule, rather than being called in on a case-by-case basis. Whoever's on-call will assist when you're on a case."

Something in Fuller's expression must have given away the fact that he'd heard this spiel before, because Bane paused and tilted his head, one eyebrow lifting.

"My friend Yoshino was really thrilled when you switched to the standard schedule."

Bane's eyes widened, and he pointed a finger at Fuller's chest. "You're Yoshino's Fuller! I should have recognized the name."

"Not that unusual of one, sir."

"Good lord," Bane pressed a hand to his chest in mock horror. "Don't ever call an analyst sir."

"Yoshino looked like she was going to stab me when I tried to call her ma'am when we first met."

"See!" Bane grinned. "You knew better, don't second guess your own instincts, darling."

"Yess—" Fuller snapped his mouth shut.

"Good job." Bane nodded, as over the-top serious as he'd been horrified a moment before. "Quick learner. Lightwood appreciates that."

Maia cleared her throat, but when Fuller looked at her she just shook her head.

Clearly something he wasn't supposed to get yet. He wondered if they'd tell him, or if they'd expect him to figure it out on his own.

He turned back to Bane, who offered the blandest, most overtly guileless smile Fuller had possibly ever seen.

"Wow, that bad a poker face has got to be on purpose," Fuller blurted out before he could stop himself.

Luckily Bane seemed to appreciate that, because he switched back to his broad grin, and winked at Roberts. "I like this one."

"He's got potential."

Fuller could hear the smile in Roberts' voice, and he let himself relax enough to smile back at her. "Thanks."

He'd met a couple of the analysts before, Yoshino obviously, and he'd gone to one of Lewis' gigs with her and some of their other friends, too. (That's why Clary looked familiar, he realized when Lewis waved hello. She'd been there, too.) The rest of them seemed more of the same, bright and clever and surprisingly cheerful, considering the kinds of things they looked at every day.

Then again, tracking financials and art provenances was probably a nice break from the BAU and trafficking work. Fuller hoped he could handle it as well as he wanted to... but there was no way to know for sure until he was in the middle of it

Yoshino met him on his way out at the end of the day, and dragged him off to dinner at one of their favorite diners.

"So what do you think?" She asked, and there was that odd note again, like the one she'd had when Carter was half-gossiping the night before.

"SSA Lightwood's got a wedding ring." Fuller didn't answer her actual question.

"And profilers aren't supposed to profile their co-workers."

Fuller huffed out a sigh, and leaned back, listening to the plasticy squeak of the pleather against his back. "Profilers can't turn off their brains, we're just not supposed to bring it up unless the other person does first."

"Got that on your first day?" Yoshino smiled. "You are a good fit, aren't you."

Fuller shrugged, tried to pretend he wasn't both pleased and slightly embarrassed at the same time, and hadn't spent most of the day feeling that way. "I hope so."

"The gossip's not entirely wrong," she said. "It's just... not got the whole story."

"And you do?"

She shrugged at him, mirroring his own gesture back. "I've got enough to know that you'll know when you've got enough, too."

Fuller rolled his eyes. "That didn't make sense."

"I know. It will."

Fuller narrowed his eyes and glared at her. She trusted him, he trusted her... but this wasn't her _thing,_ whatever it was. It was Lightwood's, and the BAU's, and apparently the analysts' to some extent, if only because they were slightly sideways from the field agents and probably knew _all_ the secrets. She couldn't break tradition, or whatever it was, just because they were friends.

"Ok." Fuller nodded and lifted his chin to catch their waiter's eye. "Want to split a milkshake?"

She laughed, and he didn't mention that he could tell it was more relief that he wasn't pushing than amusement at his offer. "Hell no, I'm going to get my own."

* * *

SSA Lightwood wasn't an easy man to work for, and his presence in a room was still a little overwhelming, but it didn't take long before Fuller realized he was also aggressively, purposefully, _fair _in a way he'd never really seen before.

Everyone got the same steady gaze, got met with the same expectations of competence; Lightwood looked at you, and believed you could do the job... so you did it, whether you believed it too or not.

If you asked Lightwood a question he always stopped and considered it, no matter how flippant or repetitive it might be, and gave you his total attention for the entire conversation.

(Except for Herondale, who he'd apparently worked with since even before he was Unit Chief. Herondale got sighs and rolled eyes, but they could also carry on entire conversations via facial expressions and the occasional grunt, so Fuller suspected it was the same sort of attention, it just manifested a little differently.)

If you didn't ask Lightwood any questions, he'd notice, and pull you aside privately later to check in.

And make sure you did ask, next time.

"If you can't speak your mind in front of your team, you can't do your job. You'll ask things someone else thinks are obvious, and you'll be wrong about a lot of shit you thought you knew, but sometimes you'll ask the question that breaks a case, and that is the whole reason we're here."

"Yes, sir."

Fuller missed his own vocabulary. Any time he felt the weight of Lightwood's regard without anyone else around to help lighten it, he tended to forget half his damn words. _Yes sir, no sir, thank you sir, I will sir. _Fuller wanted to smack himself upside the head some days.

Lightwood had more patience for it than Fuller did himself. He seemed, in fact, to be used to that reaction, as he did that _almost _smile thing of his, and left Fuller to Roberts' tender mercies.

Roberts reminded Fuller a lot of Carter, bright and hard because she had to be, determined and kind because she chose to be, but very seldom _nice._

Nice was overrated. He much preferred Roberts' bite, Herondale's quips, Clary's impatience. He treasured Branwell's brusque honesty in comparison to the _manners_ he'd grown up with. They were a good team.

He hoped they felt the same way about him.

* * *

Fuller's team got sent out while he was still in training, of course, and he spent their cases working with the analysts, joining in on the conference calls, brainstorming and researching. He wondered if they'd let him laterally transfer over to the analysts' department if he couldn't handle the job once he got in the field.

(He was terrified of that, of losing, of screwing up. He had nightmares, woke up terrified that somehow this chance, this place that already seemed like it might be one of the best things that had ever happened to him, had slipped through his fingers despite his best intentions.)

Then again, Bane was, in his own way, scarier than Lightwood.

He hid it better, smoother manners and extravagant expressions, but his temper was quick and hot, and if he wasn't pleased he knew how to make every comment sharp and biting until his victim looked rather like they'd been shredded by an angry tiger.

Metaphorically. If barely.

It was almost entertaining when it was aimed up at the brass, or out at the press or some self-righteous politician who'd gotten in Bane's way. But it was deeply discomfiting too, because he'd tilt his head and smile cheerfully at anyone else who came by, and you realized by how quickly he turned it around that all those bright words and expressions were just a mask, that anything at all could be happening behind his eyes and no one would know unless he decided to tell them.

Fuller felt like he was dying when he saw it turned on an analyst who'd made a mistake. Russell was a shitty analyst, didn't last much more than a week longer anyway, and he _had_ screwed up, and badly, (his field agent had almost gotten shot because he hadn't actually finished the back ground checks he'd said were done), but still. _Still._ Bane had turned on one of his own and _eviscerated_ him with a few well placed words and then turned his back on the man like nothing had happened.

The fact that Russell had failed entirely to actually be _one of them_ wasn't just a technicality, of course, but it felt like one. It reminded Fuller too much of his family, of learning as a child how to face outwards, smooth and polished and flawless, regardless of anything that had been felt or heard or said behind closed doors.

He knew it wasn't a fair comparison, that as soon as you were _his_ Bane would do anything to protect you, that if Russell had done his best Bane would have been the first to defend him to the Section Chief, that Bane aimed those sharp-tipped claws of his _out,_ never in, but...

Fuller was just going to have to make sure he made it through his probationary period to profiler; he preferred Lightwood's heavy gaze to Bane's glittering smiles.

* * *

Fuller's first field case was an injustice collector, getting revenge against those who'd wronged him. And they _had_ wronged him and those he'd loved, had been bullies and abusers and a rapist who'd gotten away with it, easy enough for Bane to verify once they'd realized what they were looking for. It was a deeply disturbing feeling when they'd brought the man in, to look him in the eyes and realize that Fuller identified more with the unsub than most of his victims, that he could see so clearly how what he'd done had almost, _almost_, made sense.

Lightwood brought Fuller a drink that night, two tiny little bottles from a mini-bar dwarfed by his large hands. "You did just fine."

"It's so easy sometimes," Fuller answered, and Lightwood nodded. There was a glint of something in his eyes, and Fuller realized he understood exactly what Fuller didn't know how to say. _Sometimes the monsters are more sympathetic than the rest of them._

* * *

His fourth field case, Lightwood saw them off but didn't join them.

"Congrats, newbie." Herondale smirked at him. "Lightwood followed me around half-a-dozen times before he let me go out unsupervised."

Roberts snorted and threw a pen at him. "That's because you're special."

Herondale caught the pen easily and blew her a kiss.

"He averages three cases," Branwell put in. "You're right where you should be, Fuller."

"He only baby-sat Branwell twice," Clary stage-whispered. "He likes her best."

Branwell snorted. "We all know I'm a very distant second, at best."

There was a pause, as they all very carefully didn't look at Fuller, who added that to his mental "Lightwood Mystery File" and pretended he wasn't curious.

He trusted Yoshino, and she thought he'd figure it out when it was time.

He hoped she was right, because if someone had to spell it out to him he suspected he was never going to live it down.

Yoshino was their analyst this time, which was surprisingly comforting, such a familiar voice on the other end of the phone. Fuller wondered if they'd put her on call on purpose, for his sake.

He wondered if the fact that they'd had Bane himself when Lightwood was supervising meant something, if that something had anything to do with why the BAU was so protective of their boss, or if was just another way to keep an eye on the rookies.

He added it to the metaphorical file with a question mark, just in case.

* * *

Fuller stopped keeping such careful track of his number of cases, his finished consultations, was feeling mostly comfortable both out in the field and doing his own in-office correspondence and analysis, had even done a couple custodial interviews with Branwell where he felt like he contributed more than a glorified secretary.

He hadn't worked another case with Bane as their tech, but he hadn't worked another case with Lightwood, either, so he still didn't know if it was a Lightwood thing or a rookie thing. Fuller had done some referral and research work in-office with Bane though, and every time he walked into a room and Bane filled up all the air around him, he realized yet again why Yoshino liked her job so much. Bane was brilliant and shiny, amusing and amused, and here, surrounded by _his_ people, those tiger's claws never came out.

He was certainly never boring, which was probably the most important trait of all when your job required wrangling a bunch of magpie computer nerds.

Fuller felt comfortable with his team, worked well with the analysts, got along with the other two BAU teams when they brainstormed over case-files in the conference room, even got into a pleasantly heated discussion with Underhill (the second newest member of the BAU) about the importance of trophies and mementos on a prosecutorial level versus their usual psychological concerns.

He _liked_ it here. He'd hoped, but he didn't think he'd really expected... whatever this was. He was still technically a Probationary Profiler, but it felt right, like he'd found his place.

He wasn't sure he'd ever believed that was a real thing, at work, that you could click into a spot and have it feel almost like home.

* * *

Branwell got the flu, full-blown and nasty, and Lightwood ordered her home. She argued, despite glassy eyes and a red nose and a slight sway as she tried to stand up straight, right until he swore that if she gave it to the rest of her team he would ground her for _a year._

(Fuller had a package of face-masks in his go bag, just in case she'd tried to get on a plane with him. He was glad he didn't haven't to open it. Or not until the next time Torres refused to admit he was sick, at least.)

Their team was next on rotation though, and when they got a case in Chicago, Lightwood showed up on the airstrip, black duffel over his shoulder, so they wouldn't be down a man in the field. As soon as they were settled at cruising altitude and called in to go over the case files, there was Bane.

Who Fuller was 85% sure had been covering second shift for Lewis to go to some family thing that week, and certainly wasn't on call for first-shift casework.

But Lightwood had known Bane was going to answer the phone, and no one else seemed surprised, so Fuller figured he probably had his answer. It wasn't about the rookies, or if it was that was just a bonus; if Lightwood was out, Bane was probably going to be on the phone. He wondered how long they'd known each other, worked together, at what point the head of the BAU and the Lead Analyst ended up a package deal.

Wondered if Bane was the one in first place in Branwell's theoretical hierarchy.

* * *

A few months later, Fuller's team caught a housecleaner, someone killing junkies and prostitutes, wiping away all the lives he didn't approve of... a housecleaner who it seemed, now that they were looking, had probably been working in San Diego for years, and only now caught the SDPD's attention because he'd gotten a couple of tourists who'd been trolling for prostitutes rather than his usual homeless types.

Lightwood joined them on the jet.

Fuller hadn't realized that he'd gotten used to _team-leader_ Lightwood, who was fair and steady and supportive beneath that cool imposing self-control, until he walked into a room behind _SSA Lightwood_ and saw the entire precinct _flinch_ at the way a Fed was staring at them.

Lightwood didn't raise his voice, simply asked to speak to the Captain in private, but Fuller had never seen a group of cops that quiet in his entire life while he and the rest of the team set up, and by the time Lightwood came back out of the Captain's office, said Captain looked like he'd aged ten years and lost ten pounds, hunched in on himself and with a brittle expression on his face.

Their only potential witness was a five year old girl whose mother was one of the missing prostitutes. Lightwood interviewed her himself, got down on one knee next to her chair and spoke to her with the softest, gentlest voice Fuller had ever heard, let young Laura tell him about her favorite flavor of ice cream and the best cartoons on Netflix whenever she started to get too upset thinking about her mother, and never gave her an ounce less than his complete attention.

It wasn't feigned. None of it ever was, not his steady support of his team, not his outrage at the ignored victims, not his compassion for this one lost little girl.

Fuller remembered a story Underhill had told him about an arson victim on one of his cases, about Lightwood sitting by her bed in the hospital for hours while the team ran the rest of the case, barely taking a break for almost an entire day as she swam in and out of consciousness. Lightwood had gotten them some good information, details on the scene and unsub that no one else had, and at the time Fuller had just assumed that that had been it. Patient, diligent, thorough. Those were all obvious Lightwood traits.

But now, watching Lightwood smile at a five year-old girl, watching the careful touch of his hands as he picked up crayons and smoothed out paper, Fuller realized that Lightwood had done it just as much for the woman in the burn ward, making sure she wasn't alone during her long painful slide into darkness.

Somehow, Lightwood never ever let himself forget they were dealing with _people_.

Fuller blinked against the heat in his eyes, and turned his head when he felt a bump against his shoulder. Herondale smiled at him, warm and sad and understanding, all at once.

"You got it now, don't you?"

Fuller nodded.

He got the rest of it later that same day, when they were locked up in their conference room going over intel. It was just the BAU, the locals doing the footwork out on the streets as they tried tracking leads with Bane. They'd hit a wall though, and Lightwood sighed, his shoulders too tight and his fingers almost curled into fists. "Take a break, get some food, some coffee, whatever you need. We'll meet back in two hours."

Roberts cleared her throat and glared at Lightwood, clearly of the opinion that he needed the break as much as the rest of them. Lightwood glared back, until Bane's voice interrupted, warm and rich and layered with more emotion than Fuller had ever thought a simple phone line could carry.

"Alexander."

Lightwood closed his eyes, and sighed, and Fuller watched as all the tension drained from him, as his hands shifted until the curl of his fingers was protective rather than angry, until his thumb was pressed against his wedding ring, until the beginnings of a soft smile made the whole room feel warmer. His voice was just as soft, adoration and relief clear in every syllable. "Sorry, Magnus."

Roberts shoved the lot of them out of the room, leaving Lightwood alone.

With his _husband._

"Holy shit," Fuller breathed out once they made it outside. "How did I miss that."

Clary laughed, soft and tired but still somehow delighted. "Most people do, until a moment like that, and then it seems so obvious you wonder what was wrong with you."

Branwell chuckled. "No one usually gets that until after they're past the probationary period. You're ahead of the curve, this time."

"But. How. When. What?" Fuller's brain was mush, he couldn't seem to do anything with it, including talk.

"They're not technically in each other's chain of command, and they're both very good at what they do," Branwell answered his not a question.

"The Bureau higher-ups mostly just pretend they don't know anything about either of their private lives," Roberts added. "Keeps everyone doing their jobs, and the BAU is one of the only public faces of the Bureau that the press mostly _likes,_ and no one wants to screw that up."

"Huh." Fuller nodded. Then shook his head. Then shrugged. It would probably make sense tomorrow. Or the day after whenever he managed to get sleep again, at least.

Herondale draped an arm over his shoulder, and squeezed gently. "They're both very _on-the-job_ when they're _on-the-job,_ you know?"

Fuller managed a regular nod that time. He did know.

"All right then." Clary clapped her hands, and pulled in front of the rest of them, shooting a look back over her shoulder. "Yoshino tells me you like cheese fries and milkshakes when you're tired, and there's a great diner about two blocks this way."

Fuller huffed out something that was almost a laugh, and let Herondale drag him after Clary towards some junk food. "Sounds great."

* * *

There were three more missing people before they caught him.

When they found his home base, he had a book-shelf of tiny little notebooks, each one cataloging a single victim, how he'd found them, how he'd lured them, what he'd done to them.

They were piled three deep, and went back even further than they'd thought.

There was only one person left alive, a young man strapped to a table in a room that was going to give Fuller nightmares for the rest of his life, and probably half of his next one.

The young man died on the way to the hospital.

They didn't know his name, hadn't ever found a missing person's report he matched, didn't have anyone to tell. They had to let him go, all alone, into the dark.

But even after he died, it wasn't over. Fuller wasn't sure this case would ever be over. The techs were going to be gathering and processing evidence for weeks. The SDPD had a black mark they might never entirely wash away, letting one man kill so many people without even noticing he was there.

Fuller wasn't sure he'd ever be able to come back to San Diego without thinking about that, without wondering how many more might be out there, getting away with it because they were killing people that someone had decided _didn't matter anymore._

And there was still a little girl at the police station, waiting for them to come back.

Waiting for them to bring her mother back.

Her mother was never coming back.

Lightwood told Laura that her mother was dead himself, the social services rep sitting quietly on the couch beside them. Lightwood held Laura while she cried, held her until she fell asleep, flushed and hiccuping and exhausted despite it all. He held her until her Aunt showed up at the precinct at about four in the morning, staggering in from the airport after flying in all the way from some tiny town in Alaska that Fuller had never heard of before, hopefully never would again. _Point Hope _seemed an increasingly cruel sort of irony every time he saw it on the paperwork.

Fuller was with them, and it was his turn to catch someone when the Aunt's knees gave out at the news that her sister wasn't just missing anymore, that she was dead.

That they'd found the man who'd killed her.

"Can I see her?" Her name was Neria, and her voice was tentative, as if she wasn't sure if she wanted to see what had happened to her sister, despite wanting to say good-bye.

"I'm afraid not." Fuller said, and he shook his head when Neria opened her mouth to argue. "He cremated his victims."

"Oh," Neria stuttered out something that was almost a laugh, despite the gleam of tears caught in her eyes. "Of course he did."

Fuller lifted his eyebrows, tried to find a gentle way to ask what she meant.

"When Chloe left home, she just kept going south... every time she talked to me, she tried to talk me into moving down here too. Said she was finally _warm._" At that her tears overflowed down her cheeks and she ducked her head to hide them.

Fuller sat beside her, kept her hand in his until she was ready to look up again.

"I'm sorry for your loss," he offered the familiar words again; useless though they were, they were all he had.

"Thank you," Neria smiled at him, at Lightwood, still cradling her niece in his arms. "I was sure when I got here that all I'd get was a shrug, that they'd tell me there wasn't anything they could do, not for." Her voice broke. She swallowed, rubbed at her eyes. "That the fact that she was gone wasn't important, that it wouldn't matter, that they wouldn't waste their time, not for... for someone _like her_."

"Everyone matters," Lightwood replied, his voice low and rough.

Neria lifted her chin to point out at the rest of the precinct, the cops moving back and forth in their bullpen beyond the glass walls of the small office they'd taken. "Did they all think that before you showed up?"

"They should," Lightwood answered, which was more than answer enough that they hadn't.

She shook her head. "I'm glad Chloe was lucky enough to have you on her side."

_Luck shouldn't matter, _Fuller wanted to say, but it wouldn't help Chloe, or Neria, so he kept his mouth shut, and slipped out so Lightwood could say good-bye to young Laura in private.

It was a very quiet ride back on the jet.

* * *

Yoshino invited Fuller over for dinner when he got back, as if she knew exactly how unpleasant the inside of his head had to be. Torres brought twice as much wine as usual.

Carter tried to distract him by asking about Lightwood again, and Fuller shoved back his chair and stalked out to the balcony so he wouldn't say something he'd regret. He gripped the railing too hard, head bowed as he stared down at his own knuckles, as he watched them turn white from the pressure.

He heard the door slide open and closed behind him, and peered out of the corner of his eye as Yoshino came up beside him.

"Bane's over-qualified for his rank by now, too," Yoshino said. "Not sure why there's not as much gossip about him as there is Lightwood."

"Techs are weird everywhere, remember?" Fuller scoffed, and swallowed, and tried not to swear.

She huffed out a breath, and leaned against his side. He made himself relax until his hands were just resting in front of him, knuckles loose and metal smooth against his palm.

"He wouldn't take a promotion even if they offered," Fuller said. "Any higher up, and he wouldn't be able to help people directly, wouldn't be able to step into the field when we need him."

"I know." Fuller felt Yoshino nod against his shoulder. "Bane wouldn't want to be a step further away than he is now either. From us and the cases, the victims he can help, as well as Lightwood."

"No one's ever going to offer either of them a promotion though."

"Nope."

There'd be ways to work around the chain of command, if someone wanted to try, but they wouldn't. Not for them. Because they were both men, because one of them couldn't pass for white, because they put their people's needs before the politics of their positions.

But mostly because they were married, and there was no hiding that, no letting them be ambiguous about their sexuality. That wasn't something the Bureau would admit was worth investing the effort in protecting, not out loud, not yet.

Fuller hoped it was a not yet, rather than a not ever, but he wasn't sure.

He felt an ugly and guilty sort of relief that his own sexuality, (or supposed lack of it, in most people's minds), wouldn't ever get in the way of the job.

It would never be acknowledged, either, but...

Fuller swallowed, forced words past the burn in his throat. "It's not fair."

"Nope." Yoshino sighed, barely audible, and he knew her throat burned with it too.

"I've never... I've never heard anything like that."

Yoshino hummed, a lift to the tone asking her question for her.

"Bane called him _Alexander._"

"Ha." That time the escape of air was much closer to a laugh. "That does it, everytime. Lightwood just..."

"Turns into six feet of jello." Fuller had seen it, and he still almost couldn't believe it.

Yoshino snickered. "Bane does too, as soon as he sees or hears Lightwood give in, he's gone, you can see the heart-eyes from space."

"Aw hell, I could hear them over the phone."

"It's amazing, right?"

"It is." Fuller let himself think about that for a moment, about the warmth in their voices, in the air, tangible despite the hundreds of miles between them. Let himself smile about that, rather than think about the case, about all those little notebooks, about the politics that meant that Lightwood and Bane had fewer choices than either of them deserved. "I'm never leaving the BAU."

"I know."

It was a change. He'd always been ambitious, always talked about moving up the ranks, about having enough power to make things change for the better.

But he could change the lives of the victims he met from right where he was, could do it surrounded by people he liked, he respected, people he _trusted._

Before Lightwood, the people he trusted were all in this apartment.

Now there was a whole office full of them across town.

That change was worth everything.

There was a tap on the glass behind them, and Fuller turned to see Torres and Carter.

Torres was holding up the as-yet unopened second bottle of wine, while Carter had a sloppy sign with an "I'm sorry :(" written on it in purple sharpie. Fuller shook his head, and then nodded his acceptance of the apology, and Torres slid open the door to usher them back inside.

"So tell me about Lightwood," Carter asked a few hours later, when they'd finished their food and were all just draped lazily across the living room. "I didn't mean to poke at you, I'm just curious."

"I've seen him in passing," Torres said while Fuller thought about what he wanted to say. "He's tall as a tree and looks kind of like he could punch through a wall, and yet the entire BAU bristles if anyone even looks at him funny."

Fuller shrugged. "He probably could punch through a wall."

Yoshino giggled. "The wall would get out of his way if he glared at it, no punching required."

Fuller nodded. "His eyebrows are lethal. I think the only words I said to him for a week were variations on 'thank you, sir'."

"And yet, now you're doing the bristling over-protective thing too!" Carter pointed at him. "And you're still probationary."

Fuller looked at Yoshino, and she tilted her head, and nodded just a little.

"He's a giant marshmallow." Fuller said. He thought about the way Lightwood had smiled when Bane was on the phone, thought about the burn-victim Underhill had mentioned, thought about young Laura, the witness on the last case. Thought about quiet phone calls Lightwood made with his back turned, realized now that he must have been talking to Bane. "He's married, you know? He calls home every day, no matter what we're doing in the field, or in the office. His whole body curls around his phone, and he makes time for that conversation, soft and quiet, no matter what else we're dealing with, what else we have to do."

Yoshino smiled, and Fuller wondered what that phone call looked like from the other side, what Bane did when he got it, every day, no matter what.

"He _what._" Carter blinked at him, too startled to manage anything else.

"He wears a wedding ring." Yoshino's lips twitched, as if she was trying to stop her smile from turning into a grin. Or possibly a cackle. "What kind of Agents are you, that you never noticed?"

"Hey." Torres sputtered, but didn't really have a defense, and he sighed and his shoulders sagged. "I have no idea."

Fuller chuckled. "I didn't know what to do with that one on my first day either."

"Huh." Carter almost pouted, but then she shook her head, the familiar swish of her ponytail catching on the back of her chair. "Well, you both like him, that's more than enough for me."

"Thanks?"

"You're welcome." Carter lifted her chin, a teasing smirk as she looked down her nose at them. "It's quite the compliment, accepting someone else's judgement. I don't do that for just anyone."

"We know." Yoshino's voice was soft, almost too soft.

Carter ducked her head, lips buzzing as she huffed out a breath. "Shut up."

Fuller pretended he couldn't see the faint flush of embarrassment across her cheeks, and turned to Torres instead. "Why are we all only teasing me, anyways? How's White Collar going?"

Torres rolled his eyes. "That was the worst change of subject, how have you ever successfully interviewed a suspect?"

"No idea," Fuller answered brightly. "Luck?"

"No one's that lucky," Torres answered, voice dry as a bone.

"I've got my dream job, and all of you." Fuller tilted his drink, a toast aimed at all three of them. "Pretty much overflowing with luck, I think."

Carter threw a pillow at him, and he just barely got his glass out of the way so it wouldn't splash wine everywhere.

Her disappointed eye-roll was _audible._ "Fucking sap."

"Love you, too," he smiled at her.

"Ugh." She slumped back in her chair. "No more wine for you, you sentimental bastard. I can't take it."

* * *

Now that he knew, Fuller really did wonder how he'd missed it. Lightwood and Bane were always professional while working, but they were also always _aware_ of where the other was; they practically orbited around each other when they were in the same room. Bane was _always_ on the line if Lightwood called in, Lightwood was _always_ available if Bane had a comment or question or referral.

Roberts laughed at him as he shook his head over his lunch, but Roberts laughing was delightful enough he didn't even care that it was at him. He smiled at her, and sighed. "I caught them staring at each other across the bull-pen today, how the fuck wasn't it obvious?"

"I don't know, but they do it to everyone." Roberts stole one of his grapes, and he tried to glare at her, but he didn't think she fell for it anymore than Carter or Torres ever did. "Lydia's right, you got a giveaway moment sooner than most people manage."

"That's because the case got to Lightwood, not because of me."

Roberts shook her head. "He's careful not to let the rookies see it when a case pushes his buttons. He let his guard down. Around you."

"Really?" Fuller blinked, felt that same pleased embarrassment from back on his first day, when everyone had been so helpful about getting him settled in, from the morning after his first field-arrest, when Herondale bought him coffee and offered his now familiar crooked grin for the first time, from the night after his second custodial interview with Branwell, when she put her feet up in the hotel room and let him see her sigh, from the first time Clary asked if he'd like to carpool to Lewis' latest gig, which they now did together any time they were in town... from the lunch-break several months ago which had been the first time Roberts had sat with him and stolen his food, relaxed and laughing.

Roberts' smile widened. "Aw, boy, you're blushing, aren't you?"

Fuller sighed, and shrugged, and didn't try to deny it. "Perils of being a very white, white boy."

Roberts snorted, and stole another grape. "At least you clearly go shopping at the hipster white boy farmer's market, these are great."

"I'll try to bring some extra tomorrow."

"No. Try not. Do or do not, there is no _try_." Roberts managed to keep a very straight and serious expression, even as her voice rasped into a disturbingly good Yoda impression.

"That is the worst possible advice to give a student, _ever._" Fuller grunted.

"Are you insulting _Yoda_?" Roberts' horror sounded only half-exaggerated.

Fuller snorted. "No, I'm insulting Lucas because I can't imagine Brackett or Kasdan wrote something that stupid on their own."

Roberts' eyes widened slowly, her mouth dropping into a wide and delighted smile. "Oh my _god,_ you have _opinions_ on _Star Wars._"

"Doesn't everyone?"

"No, they do not, not like that." Roberts leaned forward, almost bouncing in her chair. "Simon and his sister Rebecca host a proper marathon re-watch every year, the last weekend in May, you should join us!"

Fuller tilted his head, and hummed as if it was a difficult consideration. Yoshino would be _thrilled_ that he found someone else to watch _Star Wars_ with... she liked them well enough, but like a normal person, not a _fan._ "What order do you watch?"

"Machete. With Rogue One first, obviously." Roberts leaned even further forward, her voice dropping into a heavy whisper. "Becky has the theatrical cuts of the original trilogy."

Fuller's mouth dropped open. "Do you think I can ask for the time off now?"

"Ha." Roberts' laugh was short and sharp and loud enough it echoed. "I did. I have a standing request going, every year."

Fuller grinned. "That was a yes, I'd love to, in case it wasn't obvious."

"Think I got that." Roberts pushed herself back from the table and stood up. "I'm gonna let Simon know. Don't be surprised if he ambushes you sometime in the next week to get you started telling him all your _opinions._"

"I'm looking forward to it."

Roberts' smile softened. "You actually are, aren't you?"

"Wouldn't say it if I wasn't."

"And that's why Lightwood trusts you."

Fuller blinked yet again, but before he could try and think up a response, Roberts waved and walked away.

Fuller went back to his lunch; he had to fight back a stupid smile for the rest of the afternoon.

* * *

On his official promotion to full-fledged profiler, they took him out to fucking _karaoke._ Torres and Carter were there too, sporting identical _cat-that-got-the-canary_ grins, and Fuller knew exactly who arranged it.

Lightwood and Bane showed up, _together,_ stealing each other's drinks, pressed into one small booth until they were touching shoulder to thigh, and neither of them quite stopped smiling the whole night.

(Carter had to be escorted to they alley out back for a five minute _what-the-actual-fuck_ breakdown at the sight of them, but she did her usual and bought everyone a round before her meltdown.)

He briefly considered plotting revenge when he got shoved on stage, but he recognized the opening to _[Never Been In Love](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rtgcPWnR0ak) _and Lewis whistled and Roberts laughed and even Lightwood grinned at him over everyone else's heads, and how could anyone avoid smiling at that? He didn't have it in him to hold onto the mad.

He had enough of a hangover the next day that he considered making the attempt again, but Torres and Carter looked even worse than he felt, so he decided laughing at them was a better plan.

* * *

Fuller thought he was fine.

More than fine.

The job was hard, and maybe he drank a bit more than he used to in order to put it away some nights, but it was satisfying. He was _good_ at it. He did good _with_ it. He helped people, and he helped people by doing something that not a lot of people could do.

He'd spent a lot of his life trying to convince himself he wasn't somehow broken, but now... now he had something he could be proud of himself for accomplishing.

Now he _was_ proud of himself.

So proud he even stared at his phone for half an hour one morning, and half-typed in his old phone number from when he was a kid before he realized he didn't even know if his parents still had a landline, if they still lived in the same house, if they were still there. Would they even recognize his voice, if he tried?

He wasn't sure he'd know if they were still alive; was he still on anyone's emergency contact list? Buried on the last page of a will somewhere?

Would his sister even honor it, if he was?

Would he want her to?

He put his phone away, and went to work.

* * *

He wasn't fine.

It hit him all at once, thirty months worth of the job, _thirty years worth of life_, looking down at a body at a crime scene.

Well, part of a body. She'd been in the swamp long enough the animals had gotten to her, her eyes and her nose gone, half a leg missing, nibble marks on her fingers and toes.

But what was left of her hair looked about the same color as his, and she had a violet tattoo on her left ankle, just like Amanda, and suddenly he couldn't breathe.

He couldn't stand up straight, and he couldn't think, and he couldn't _breathe,_ and he almost fell, almost _stepped on her hair,_ and he couldn't, he couldn't...

"Fuller."

Lightwood was gripping the top of his arm, leaning in until he could speak close to Fuller's ear without his voice carrying.

"This way."

He had to focus to keep track of his feet, his legs, couldn't figure out what his hands were doing, could feel the hard line of each of Lightwood's fingers around his bicep.

"Not at the scene."

Fuller blinked, felt the hot metal of the car against the side of his leg, realized they were alone back where they'd parked, the edge of a gravel road without a name that was the closest place to stop they'd found.

They were going to have to figure out how the unsub got out here.

"I'm sorry."

Lightwood's grip didn't ease, even as he shook his head. "You have nothing to apologize for."

"You had to take me away from the..."

Lightwood shook his head again, sharp and insistent, and Fuller stopped talking.

"This job gets to everyone."

Fuller swallowed, and Lightwood frowned.

"You don't understand," Fuller almost had to swallow again, his throat too tight. "I shouldn't have, I should, she..."

"Fuller."

Fuller shut his mouth.

"This job gets to _everyone._ The day it doesn't is the day I walk you out the door."

"You just walked me out of the crime scene!"

"Because you needed to step away to breathe, not because you should quit."

Fuller closed his eyes, and rolled his shoulders, and Lightwood finally let go.

When he opened his eyes Lightwood was still there, staring at him, eyes dark and gaze steady. "I will never judge anyone for needing to step away, and I will be _damned_ if I let the press or the locals, who have no idea what we have to do, judge you for it either."

Fuller blinked again, ignored the tension behind his eyes. "Thank you, sir."

"Take as long as you need."

Fuller nodded. Lightwood turned until his back was to the car, his body braced against the frame, long legs angled out in front of him.

Fuller called Yoshino.

"Hey, aren't you in the field? Did you hit the wrong speed-dial, you know Ba—"

"I need a favor."

There was a moment, a bit too long of a pause; something in his voice must have given him away. "Anything Chris, you know that."

Fuller could practically feel Lightwood's eyebrows raise with the question he wasn't asking, and Fuller's lips curled up into half a smile; he could count the number of times Yoshino had ever used his first name when talking to him on one hand and still have fingers left over.

"Find my sister."

"You're not—-"

"No." Fuller shook his head, even though he knew she couldn't see him. "I don't know, I just. I need to be sure she's... I'll explain later, all right?"

"Of course." He could hear the hard exhale of her breath. But she'd wait. He knew she'd wait.

"Thank you, Hana."

"No thanks necessary, you know that." She hung up, and he stared down at his phone.

Lightwood shifted, but Fuller called the on-call tech number.

"High Warlock of Brooklyn, Magnus Bane, at your service."

Fuller snorted. "Why Brooklyn?"

"Long story," Bane answered without answering. "How may I assist today?"

"Can you check the roster of the closest Alpha Delta Pi chapters for any members that fit our latest victim's description?"

"Of course." There was the distinctive sound of keyboard keys in the background. "May I ask what got us to consider sorority girls?"

"The violet tattoo on her ankle." Fuller had to stop; he'd felt his voice try to crack. The sound of the keyboard stopped, and Lightwood straightened up; they'd both heard it, too. "It's something the pledge classes sometimes do together, when they get accepted. Might just be a regular violet, but it can't hurt to check."

"That's a good catch, and it never hurts to check," Lightwood said. "Thank you."

"Alexander." Bane still hadn't started typing. "Give your agent a hug from me before you get back to work."

Fuller huffed out a breath, and watched Lightwood smile, and suddenly realized he'd been breathing for a few minutes now without having to think about it. "I'm fine, s—"

"Not if you're defaulting back to _sir_."

Fuller wanted to roll his eyes, but Bane was right, and he kind of wanted to cry instead. "Maybe not."

"I promise, Magnus." Lightwood was smiling, that soft one that only Bane seemed to inspire. "We'll call you back when the team's reconvened."

"And I will have... something by then, I'm sure." Bane blew a kiss into the phone, and clicked it off.

Fuller might have just stood there for a good fifteen minutes until he'd melted into the road, but Lightwood very gently nudged his hand sideways, and pulled Fuller into his arms.

Fuller felt his breath catch, not quite a sob, and pressed his face into Lightwood's shoulder. He'd grabbed back without being able to stop himself, arms wrapped around Lightwood's chest. He still had his phone in one hand, pressed to Lightwood's back now, his other hand grabbing what had been a nice suit jacket too tightly between his fingers as he clung.

To his _boss. _

In the _field._

Lightwood gave really good hugs.

Fuller filed that away. Not something he'd ever expected to learn, but it was too nice to regret it.

He filed away thoughts of Amanda and how much she'd enjoyed planning her parties, the lift of her voice and the way she'd spun around on her toes to let her skirt flare out when she looked over a room to decide the decorations. He filed away the once familiar sound of her laugh before he'd left, filed away everything he knew about what had happened to the woman dead in the swamp somewhere behind him, and pushed himself back to standing on his own.

Lightwood let him go and just stood there, tall and broad and silent, waiting for him.

Fuller inhaled, coughed. Tried again.

Again.

"All right."

"You sure?" Lightwood somehow wasn't condescending, wasn't doubting, wasn't pushing. He was just asking, and expecting Fuller to answer properly, not just rattle off what he thought he wanted to hear.

"Yeah." Fuller nodded. "I'm even good enough not to try to apologize."

"Glad to hear it." Lightwood did that crooked half-smile of his, and Fuller felt something in his chest settle. Maybe he wasn't fine, but he would be all right. "Magnus might very well get you a cake to celebrate that one, when we get back."

"What, not apologizing?"

Lightwood's smile widened, even as he lifted his chin and started them back towards the crime scene. They'd gotten a few steps off the road, side-by-side if not quite in step, before he spoke again. "He's familiar with how hard it is for those of us who think there's something wrong with us when we need help."

"We?" Fuller glanced sideways at that.

Lightwood tilted his head, a hint of a shrug lifting his shoulder. "How do you think I recognize it so well in my people?"

Fuller stopped walking. "I'm glad of that, you know."

Lightwood stopped too, and waited again. (He was really good at that, too. Slightly less surprising than the hug, though.)

"I'm glad I'm on this team, that I'm working for you. Even with..." Fuller trailed off, gestured toward the body they were going to find again.

"The one that reminds you of your sister?"

Fuller shrugged back. That hadn't been a difficult couple of dots to connect. He was mostly sure it wasn't her, she'd never let her natural hair color grow out that much, and he definitely didn't want to talk about it here, _now_, but... "Thank you."

"You're a good Agent, you've earned it. You don't have to thank me."

Fuller shook his head, but started walking again. Lightwood really had _no idea_ how remarkable a Unit Chief he was; if Bane hadn't managed to convince him at some point over the years, Fuller was pretty sure he didn't stand a chance. Didn't mean he wouldn't say it regardless. "Yes, I do. _Sir._"

Lightwood rolled his eyes and grunted rather than accept the compliment or say something _nice_ like 'you're welcome' or anything. _Sarcastic bastard._. Fuller felt himself let the last of his almost panic attack go, felt his shoulders ease and his stomach settle.

He wasn't fine.

But that wouldn't stop him.

* * *

Bane found their victim's name: Marisa Allen. She wasn't a Delta Pi, but she'd wanted to be; had tried to rush three years in a row. They'd confirmed with dental records; her roommate had filed a missing person's report two weeks ago. They'd informed her parents, and gotten a proper picture of her to put up on the board with the rest of them.

Half-a-dozen, now.

The unsub had a very clear physical type, white women in their mid-30's, short and curvy with dark blonde/light brown hair.

"Dishwater." Fuller said, looking at the line of photos on the board.

Roberts lifted her brows at him, like he was speaking gibberish.

He lifted his chin at the pictures. "That's what my mother always called that shade, that sort of in-between color. _Dirty_ blonde."

There was a noticeably still moment in the room, as no one commented on the fact that his hair was that color, or on the way his voice had turned sharper than usual, had lifted up in the approximation of someone else's tone of voice rather than his own.

"That's not a very nice description," Clary broke the silence.

_My mother's not a very nice woman. _Fuller shrugged instead. "Wasn't supposed to be. She didn't approve."

"Of your hair color?" Branwell gave him the eyebrows this time.

"She said it showed a lack of conviction."

"Your _hair color_?" Branwell repeated. Fuller wondered if her parents had actually liked her.

He wondered what that was like.

"She dyed our hair blond as soon as she realized we'd both settled on such a... hmmm. Disappointing shade. Thought my sister was being horrifyingly gauche when she picked red instead as a teenager, but that was still better than me refusing to 'keep up appearances' at all once I got to high school."

_Hair color? _Branwell mouthed again, as Clary looked vaguely cross-eyed at the ends of her ponytail draped over her shoulder, bright and cheerful and oh so red.

Lightwood offered a wry half-a-smile; he clearly understood exactly what sort of person Fuller's mother was, and what sort of relationship they'd had. Which was depressing. No one understood that sort of thing unless they'd lived it, or loved someone who was still living it.

Herondale would have understood as well, Fuller thought, but he'd taken an actual vacation for once, so Fuller would have to wait until he got back and caught up on the gossip to be sure.

Roberts snorted; her eyes were dark with shared understanding, too. Fuller was struck, not for the first time, with the thought that anyone who could make it as a profiler was probably a little fucked up in the head. "Your mom sounds like a bitch."

Fuller shrugged again. Couldn't really argue that. Didn't have any inclination to try. "That was the conclusion I came to as well."

There was another beat of silence, as if no one quite knew how to come back from that one. He'd known everyone in this room for almost three years, and not a one of them had ever heard him mention his family before, had even known he _had_ a sister until today.

"But she's not a serial killer," Fuller added. "So not really relevant at the moment."

Lightwood snorted.

"Gotta find what silver lining you can, huh?" Roberts' grinned at him, sharp and vicious, and he smiled back.

"It's the little things."

Branwell shook her head, and they got back to working on victimology. Their unsub had a type, but they still didn't know how he found them.

* * *

His name was Marcus Jackson, and he worked as a bartender at one of the few bars in town that attracted both college students and tourists; it was how he'd gotten such a wide range of victims. (He'd also shown up on the local SVU's radar in half a dozen rape cases, but they'd never gotten enough to file anything against him, nothing that showed up on an average background check. Luckily Bane was anything but average.)

Sometimes he'd seen the women he wanted himself; sometimes he'd heard someone else talking about some girl who _didn't know when to quit,_ who kept trying for something they weren't going to get, a date supposedly 'out of her league', an internship or job, a school program, a scholarship, poor Marisa and the sorority.

He'd had an 'ambitious' mother who'd left them when she was 34, (short and curvy with "dishwater" blonde hair), who hadn't come back even when she lost the fancy job, had turned herself around and looked for a new one. He'd had an abusive father who'd never gotten his 'big break' and had taken it out on his kid, who'd driven home drunk from yet another failed meeting and swerved off a bridge right into the swamp not long before the killings started. It all tracked when they found him, point by point, but for all that Fuller had been the one to find the link, the sorority rushes, the job applications, he felt numb.

They'd found pictures of potential victims Jackson had been stalking, and Fuller knew they were safe now, because of the team, because of his part of the team, but it was a purely academic success; he knew that was good news, but he couldn't really _care._

"I think I need a vacation," Fuller stared up at the ceiling of the jet on the way home.

Roberts snorted a clear agreement.

Clary leaned in, just barely pressed against his side, her voice soft and her eyes wide when he glanced at her. "Did you want to talk about it?"

He didn't.

He started talking anyway. "When I didn't date in high school, no one said anything. I think my mother might have even cautiously approved, thought it meant I had _standards._"

Lightwood hummed. Fuller had a feeling he understood that sort of willful ignorance from one's parents.

"Half way through college, when I still hadn't ever so much as mentioned a girl in passing, she was a little... 'concerned'."

Branwell's lip curled up in distaste, clearly hearing the quotation marks in his voice.

"People were starting to _talk,_ she said. If I was _gay_ I should just tell her, not try and _hide it._"

Lightwood's eyebrows lifted; that was clearly a divergence from his family life.

Fuller tried to shrug, but it was too much work, and he just sort of half-tilted in his seat. "Her social circles were performatively liberal. I should come out so she could make a show of how much she _supported me,_ of how _difficult but rewarding_ it was to have such a _brave son,_ forced to fight injustice just because of who he was_._"

Clary gagged a little, and Branwell closed her eyes with a sigh.

"My sister Amanda was quite offended, said I should know I could tell _her,_ at least."

Lightwood winced. He'd mentioned siblings in passing, his voice softening like it did when he talked to Bane; Fuller was a little jealous of that level of clear adoration. He thought he'd had that, until he didn't.

"They were even more offended when I continued to insist I wasn't gay. _Well then, what _is _wrong with you?_"

Roberts actually hissed out loud at that phrasing.

"I tried to say that nothing was _wrong with me,_ but I." Fuller swallowed, and Clary leaned a little harder, grounding him. "I wasn't entirely sure I believed it. I'd found the term asexual, but _everyone _wants to have sex, right? Something had to be wrong with me that I didn't."

"Love is love, but only if you love in the way I tell you to?" Branwell's voice was dry, but her eyes were damp, and Fuller tried to smile at her, gratitude choking his throat. "I'm sorry."

"Yeah, well." Fuller cleared his throat. "I haven't seen any of my family in a decade, and I knew it wasn't her, but the build, and the tattoo, and that was her natural hair color when she was little, and for a moment I thought about how it used to be, and I just—"

His phone rang, and he pulled it out and answered without really thinking about it.

"You're on speaker," Roberts said, clearly picking up on Fuller's difficulty processing.

"Uh." It was Yoshino. "Ok?"

"Yeah," Fuller managed, though his voice sounded thick. "Did you find her?"

"Of course." Yoshino sounded like she was trying to fake offense at the implied doubt in her abilities, but she was clearly too angry in the other direction. "Bitch is fine. Did you want to know..."

"No." Fuller swallowed. "I just needed to know, you know?"

Yoshino snorted, clearly disagreeing. "Serve her right if she wasn't."

"Hana." Fuller's voice broke, and he closed his eyes.

"What did she do?" Lightwood asked, voice low and careful. Yoshino knew, in general if not specific, that they'd gone hunting a sexual sadist, that whatever had triggered Fuller's question had been _bad._

Fuller just made a noise; he'd never managed to tell this story properly, Yoshino only knew because she'd been the one to pick him up from the hospital, had caught the aftermath.

"Did you want me to tell them?" Yoshino asked, and she'd squashed the anger somehow, her voice low and gentle.

Fuller nodded, and then sagged in his chair because he knew she couldn't see him, but he couldn't quite... he was just so damn _tired._ "Mmm-hmmm," he managed.

"They spiked his drink at a reception." Yoshino got it, her voice cool and clinical now. "But he had an allergic reaction and had to go to the ER to get his stomach pumped."

"What. How do you... why?" Clary's bewilderment was total.

"I asked Amanda." Fuller spoke up this time. "After. She was the only one I'd let get me drinks all night, anyone else always made them too strong, I didn't drink much, especially then. So I thought... I thought she'd tell us when she lost track of them, we could figure out who had done it that way."

He stopped again.

"_Mom said it'd be fine,_" Yoshino picked it back up again, voice sharp and mocking as she quoted the person he'd thought loved him more than anyone else in the world. "_You were just supposed to finally relax enough you'd get over yourself and let someone pick you up._"

Branwell made a noise like she'd been punched.

_Only the right sort of people were there, you would have been fine with any of them. _

Amanda's voice echoed in his head, and Fuller sighed. "She said it was only half of one of our mother's sleeping pills, it wasn't supposed to _hurt_ or anything." He paused as various noises of angry disbelief came from everyone in the plane. "Only, I'd tried them the year before when I'd been having trouble with insomnia after finals, and had an allergic reaction _then,_ so."

"So they set you up to get assaulted '_for your own good'_, and only failed because your mother's such a crap parent she forgot you were allergic to the thing she drugged you with?" Roberts' voice lifted with outrage, more than a question. "And I thought my parents were shitty."

Lightwood's hands had been curling into fists in his lap, but at that they started to relax, and he snorted out something that was almost a bitter laugh. "Same here."

"Maybe don't tell Jace this story," Clary managed, her voice light despite the weight of grief in her expression. "He might ask Yoshino where they are and go kill them for you."

Lightwood's snort was clearly a smothered laugh this time. "Or else get him drunk first, he's clingy enough he'll just give you a hug and refuse to let go for about a week."

Roberts' bright laugh broke free, sharp and echoing in such close quarters. "Know that from experience, boss-man?"

Lightwood's whole body relaxed, that warm distinctive _family_ smile back. "He was the one I talked to first, when I was thinking about proposing to Magnus. He told me I was an idiot for not having _'put a ring on that, already'._" Lightwood shrugged. "He was not wrong."

"I thought Bane proposed to you." Yoshino's voice cut in, warmer and lighter than before, encouraging the subject change. "He celebrates your engagement anniversary every year you know, lots of flowers in his office that make Lewis sneeze."

"He did!" Lightwood's smile widened. "I'd gotten a ring and everything, it was sitting in my desk drawer, I had a whole plan for that next weekend, and he went and swooped in and beat me to it."

Fuller laughed, soft and damp perhaps, but it was impossible not to be happy, looking at the delight in Lightwood's eyes, the warmth of his voice. "You picked a good one."

Lightwood nodded gently, something dark and warm in his eyes. "We picked each other."

"Picked a better family than you started with?" Fuller asked, something twisting in his chest at the thought, at the feel of Clary's shoulder against his arm, at the smile he'd heard in Yoshino's voice, even over the phone.

"You managed that one too, didn't you?" Lightwood's smile quirked up higher on one side than the other, a quick glance around the cabin, down at the phone, making it clear he knew exactly what Fuller meant.

"How do you think I recognized it in _my people_?" Fuller grinned.

Lightwood laughed, warm and sincere, smile lines deepening around his eyes. "Glad we all picked each other, huh."

"Yeah." Fuller sighed, and closed his eyes, and leaned back in his chair. "Also I'm totally going on vacation as soon as Herondale gets back."

"Approved," Lightwood answered.

Fuller smiled, and let himself drift off to the sound of his people talking around him.


End file.
